


She Gives Me the Stars

by windfallswest



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Episode Related, First Time, M/M, Mind Meld, Pon Farr, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-30
Updated: 2012-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-30 09:34:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/330298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windfallswest/pseuds/windfallswest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>His meditations are, quite predictably, interrupted only three hours in.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	She Gives Me the Stars

**Author's Note:**

> Post _Amok Time_ , i.e. Pon Farr fic. Spoilers. I've been informed by my beta, the redoubtable [htebazytook](http://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook), that I stole the title line from L. Dylan Christopher's poem _dream girl_. While this is completely untrue, through some quirk of synchronicity it is a very Kirk/Spock (well, Kirk/Spock/ _Enterprise_ ) sort of poem.

  
Never and always touching and touched; there was always that place in his mind that was T'Pring, that was not-him. It is an ancient use of the mind-meld which had (quite illogically, except by the logic of necessity) eluded the ban. Speaking the words, so long known, is disorienting. Amid so much disorientation, he barely notices that something feels wrong. At once wrong and right when T'Pring claims the kal-if-ee.

Afterwards, he meditates, still feeling off-balance. There is an element in this which he has yet to isolate. The surge of emotion he experienced upon seeing Jim alive was quite arresting, but upon further reflexion, his feelings upon Jim's apparent death are even more revealing. He has, it seems, become quite attached to the Captain.

His meditations are, quite predictably, interrupted only three hours in. Objectively, this much restraint is quite remarkable; but in the moment, Spock's first thought is that he would much prefer another day or three of solitary contemplation.

In his heightened state, he can smell Jim's pheromones before the chime sounds. Pheromones, not just his scent. Had he been aware of that before? Or had it simply never been present before? It is logical for a discussion of sexual matters to elicit a degree of sexual arousal. It might also be an unconscious reaction to Spock's own pheromones or Jim's near brush with death. There is no reason to assume the situation is in any way personal.

"Spock? May I come in?"

A breath. "Please do, Captain."

The door hisses open. Jim's step is more hesitant than his usual assertive stride. Spock continues to breathe carefully and does not turn.

"I'm sorry, am I interrupting?"

"I am meditating. My mind has been most unsettled of late, and I am endeavouring to restore it to order," Spock replies, splitting the difference between a baldly honest _yes_ and abruptly not wanting to send his friend away.

"Yes, well; that's what I wanted to talk to you about. To ask you how you're—if you're all right."

"I find myself much improved, Captain, thank you. I should be able to resume my duties in the morning. Please accept my apologies for any irregular behaviour I may have exhibited over the past few days. The disruption should be completely resolved in a day or two."

"My god, Spock; there's no need for you to apologise. And Bones has informed me that you are to rest until we reach Altair VI. At which time he expects you to finally present yourself for your physical before being permitted to resume you duties."

"The inauguration is an official ceremony of the highest importance. We will already be arriving late; it is crucial that the ship and crew 'put our best foot forward'. As first officer, it is my responsibility to oversee—"

"—absolutely nothing, Mister Spock." Jim, having finally caught Spock's eye, smiles. "We'll muddle along without you somehow."

"It seems I am to have little choice in the matter."

Spock bows to the inevitable and rises, abandoning for now his attempts at mental tranquillity. Jim is hovering somewhat awkwardly, running his fingers over the frame of Spock's lute.

"A fine instrument. It's a shame; we've been keeping you so busy, you've hardly had a chance to play at all lately."

"Indeed. I often find it most relaxing." Spock gives his unconscious mind a sharp kick when he realises it has set him drifting towards Jim, but by then it is too late.

"Perhaps you'll be able to devote some time to it."

Spock clears his throat. "Unfortunately, I am not at the moment relaxed enough."

Jim glances away from the instrument, at which they both are staring with an almost illogical singularity. "Are you still experiencing any...difficulty, Spock? Bones assured me that you were out of danger, but if you're at all unwell—"

"No, Captain. I am quite recovered. I am merely experiencing a few lingering side-effects."

He now has Jim's undivided attention. "Do you mean to say you...?"

"It is not so uncommon an occurrence," Spock tells the lute. "Usually, I have no trouble suppressing it."

"I...see." Jim pauses to consider his next words. Spock's attention sharpens; it is noteworthy, at the speed at which he usually thinks, that he should need to. "You know, Spock, it's not always necessary to suppress everything. Starfleet _does_ allow one to have a personal life. And surely it's illogical to make one's life needlessly difficult, especially when sharing one's burdens and experiences can be so beneficial."

"If the state is so beneficial, why is it that you yourself have not embraced it?"

Jim grimaces, Spock sees because he has somehow turned to face him. "I try, Spock. I always say I'm married to the _Enterprise_. I give her my life, and she gives me the stars. But sometimes..."

"Yes, Captain?" Spock asks softly.

"Well, isn't it the nature of all sentient life to seek understanding, to seek—partnership? It goes beyond simple biology; it's the nature of the soul."

Spock blinks. "Captain," he said, "are you propositioning, or proposing?"

For once, Jim is at a loss for words. His mouth flaps open and closed distractingly without emitting intelligible sound a few times before he manages, "I would never consider taking advantage of—"

Which is as far as he gets before Spock stops his mouth by the logically unambiguous means of placing his own atop it. It is of course a human gesture, but Spock nonetheless finds it to be quite satisfying in its results.

"I...see," Jim said after a while. "I, um."

"In either case," Spock does not of course take any enjoyment from having so completely the upper hand, "the answer is yes."

Jim blushes then. "Is there a ceremony?"

"A simple one, in seven years' time. Very similar to what you witnessed."

"I may want introduce you to an Earth one before that," Jim muses, his eyes bright with a thousand plans already. He is edging closer again.

Half-preparing himself for the sensation of chapped lips, Spock is startled by the gentle, almost hesitant brush of fingers against his own.

Jim's mind is like a scent in the air. Spock touches him back, chasing him, Jim's emotions like hounds but not wolves, yet still howling.

There is a willingness here that was missing from his bond with T'Pring. Jim is eager, brilliant with apprehension and desire. Close. Alluringly close, with only the unnecessary boundary of flesh between them.

"What's happening?" Kirk's lips brush his fingers.

"This is the mind meld. Our thoughts, our very beings, will be joined."

"Forever?" Spock feels excitement pulsing with blood through Jim's veins.

"The meld is a temporary bond, but it can go much deeper." Melding is not, in fact, a necessary part of the sexual act for Vulcans, especially with non-Vulcans, although telepathic connexion often occurs anyway between Vulcans during such prolonged contact. Spock is unsure why he feels the need now. Perhaps it is a lingering effect of the Pon Farr, quelled but not satisfied, that makes this particular form of joining seem so vital.

He strokes Jim's lips with one thumb, half mesmerised by the way they part. "I can bind us together. Link our minds."

"And our hearts?" Jim teases, pressing his hand over Spock's, under his uniform tunic. It rests only a moment before venturing over stomach, ribs, back. "What do I do?"

"Open to me," Spock tells him, although it is hardly necessary. Jim is about as closed as a well-turned field, an image that does not come from Spock's mind.

 _My mind to your mind_. Spock feels the merge like a puzzle clicking into place. _Mine_ comes the sensation he has been feeling from Jim; and, simultaneously, _yours_.

They thump against the wall, which is the nearest, most logical surface. Jim's dexterity sends bits of uniform showering down around their feet.

Jim, down to his underwear, has his legs wrapped around Spock, still in his trousers, when a flash of insight escapes him with a puff of laughter.

"Mister Spock, you're a virgin."

Verbal response is at this point redundant. Besides, Spock's mouth is busy.

"We do still need lubricant."

The oil is on a shelf next to a small meditation lamp. The closest hand reaches out for it as they pass, heading for the bed.

When Jim pulls Spock down on top of him, he is naked. So is Spock. Together, they let Jim's legs fall open and admire the sight. The little flask is smooth, glass, cool. The oil that spills out over Spock's fingers smells at once alien and familiar.

Four hands yield to the impulse to touch, marvelling at the sensation of cool and hot skin under palms, of hot and cool palms over skin, of muscle and flesh and lips and the responsive nubs of nipples. Spock kisses one and Jim tastes the oil where his hands were.

Two fingers slide into Jim's body. The intrusion burns deliciously, startling in its enjoyability. From below, there is the desire for _more_ ; and from above, that for satiation. It drives them further, faster.

A shout of pleasurepain escapes bitten lips in response to long fingers probing with internal knowledge of where to press, how far to spread. Spock is still biting and tasting, one hand in Jim's hair. Both of Jim's touch him lightly, tracing caresses up his neck and down his back that tantalise and breed wildness.

At last, it is too much. Spock bites down and crooks his fingers, and Jim's hips buck upwards so his erection scrapes Spock's ribs.

Spock bears down in turn, rutting on Jim's leg, but it isn't enough. Isn't right. He needs to be buried in this flesh that is also his flesh. As one, they pull back his hands, position legs, rub oil teasingly on Spock's sensitive cock.

The first thrust is hard and deep. The second is perfect.

It feels like the edge of orgasm then and there. There is more than just desire like the blood fever driving their bodies; there is a warmth of mind. In Spock's own mind as well as Jim's, that had gone unrecognised until their joining.

 _Welcoming_. Jim welcomes his mind even as he welcomes the physical invasion of his cock, opening and giving back, guiding his body through the unfamiliar actions even as he guides his mind through the unfamiliar emotions. _Love_ , he knows because Jim knows. Undeniably, unmistakably, love.

The press of intimacy and the meld and the echoes of pon farr blur perception until it is impossible to distinguish between thought and touch. Both grow more frenetic, and their fucking wilder.

It is a rough, raw sort of pleasure. They drum years of mutual frustration out into Jim's body, as though its vibrations might dissipate out through the bed and along the decks to the softly curving hull of the ship and finally out into the all-embracing tides of space. They claim each other now, wrapping their minds together even more tightly than their bodies; and the hard, merciless rhythm of Spock's cock drumming again and again into Jim held immobile by more than human strength echo the single, united thought of _mine, mine,_ mine.

The force of their emotions is like carbon being fused in the heart of a sun, muscles tight like the pressure of gravity and increasingly irregular waves of pleasure like the build-up to a supernova. It does take both of Spock's hands to pin Kirk's over his head. With each thrust, it is harder to hold him down. It takes more concentration, and so each is slower and more powerful than the last.

The moment of orgasm comes gradually, a thrust that sinks home and never stops. Their hands grip each other white-knuckled with almost enough pressure to break bone and loosen quite slowly, as if the release of tension were not to be believed.

They lie together afterwards, unwilling to separate in either mind or body, although Jim is still technically on-duty. Neither wants to move out of the eye of the storm or break the oddly synchronised peace between them, like reflected images in a mirror. Most illogical.

Soon, Jim will leave, but he will be back. And, in a way, he will always be there.


End file.
